


Silence is the Most Powerful Scream

by unpopularmyth (Chrysander)



Series: A Discourse for Lilies [4]
Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Angst heavy, Corruption, Escape Attempts, Graphic depictions of Terror, Humiliation, Imprisonment, M/M, Mind Control, Nelo Angelo - Freeform, Non-Canon Relationship, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pain, Tentacles, Torture, Wound Penetration, hopeless, throat
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-07-08 08:23:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19866493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chrysander/pseuds/unpopularmyth
Summary: The agony, it should have been brief.But it wasn'tIf he were to die by the hands of the demon who killed his mother, it should have been a glorious way to die.But he didn't.Now, with the black ichor invading his body, he can feel it. Day by Day. Eating away the warmth from his veins.





	1. Humiliation

**Author's Note:**

> Prequel to 'Your Embrace is worth a Thousand Lifetimes'.

Vergil lay in the shallow waters, drawing in each ragged breath as the world spun around him. The smell of burnt meat and the taste of copper saturated his senses.

For the moment that he remained there, confused and wary as he tried to determine the sorry state his body was in. What ... just happened? As he wheezed, his eyesight began to return to one of his eyes, the other was still fogged and distorted.

He could see his hand where he held the Yamato, his palm clasped tight around its hilt. The pain in his extremities so great there was barely any sensation in his arms or his legs, his fingertips were blackened, he could no longer feel them.

There was a ringing in his ears, a nagging in his mind.

Get up.

Why? Everything hurt, and if he moved it would just cause more pain.

Still, the nagging continued.

Get up.

Incessantly.

Get up!

Desperately.

GET UP!!

Heeding the nagging, he pushed himself to his knees, hunched over himself as he shifted to brace the Yamato on the ground of the shallow waters. The fresh strain of pain that coursed through his body as he stood shocked his brain awake, he focused his good eye on the reflection in the water before him.

The three glowing orbs of lightning, hanging ominously in the air. Vergil lifted his gaze to the source, the orbs framed by an angelic statuesque creature, whose cracks belied something far more sinister beneath the perfect stone.

It all came rushing back then, the last fifteen minutes of complete and utter hell of fighting this demon. The first five of which he had spent using everything he had in his repertoire to make any dent in the stone, the three after that he’d been flicked like a speck of dirt and sent flying through countless pillars, two after that to get back to the fight, only to be smashed by a stone-clad fist. He remembered getting one good parry, one good blow in the four minutes before being electrocuted. The intensity of which his healing factor could not compensate for, despite his demonic lineage as his body fried.

He remembered collapsing.

How long had he spent on the ground? He knew not.

It seemed surreal that he’d been allowed this respite, the time to recover from such a blow. It dawned on the Son of Sparda that despite the countless blows he’d landed, but one had made any dent in the Demon King. Yet he’d been struck but three times, and he was already in such a sorry state.

“Ah, there it is,” Bellowed the demon prince of darkness, the mere echo of the voice caused the air around him to tremble, “The smell of fear.”

Vergil flinched, realizing he was the one trembling, not the air. He grimaced, his grip tightening on the Yamato. No, he was not as weak as to fear this tyrant. So why couldn’t he get the shaking under control?

“Tell me, child, do you have a better sense than your father?” Vergil was confused at first, what the Demon King meant, “Will you yield?”

Swallowing his fear, it was useless to him, he once again took a fighting stance. “I will not.” He ignored the trembling, it was his just residual effects from his nerve endings being electrocuted, he told himself.

Unamused as he was, the statue form of Mundus reached toward Vergil. There was a crackling in the air, and though he flinched at the sound, Vergil managed to dodge the lightning bolt, his body screaming at him as he did so. He had to keep moving. Dodging out of the way. Keeping his distance. When Vergil finally saw an opening he seized it, leaping toward Mundus to strike the jewel affixed to the center of his forehead. Logic told him it would be dangerous, but there was always a wind-up time between lightning blasts, that was the window of opportunity to deal the bastard a mighty blow. However Vergil never reached the jewel, his trajectory halted as he was swatted once again like a bug from the air. Sent flying into the shallow waters of the ruins. As he forced himself back to his feet he saw the giant stone hand come down at him once again, having barely enough time to parry the blow.

As Yamato connected with the stone hand, Vergil dug his heels in as well as he could in the waterlogged dirt and stone underfoot. There was but a moment where he was sure, confident, that he may be getting somewhere when the Yamato shattered.

Shock permeated through him, and it seemed but for a moment that time stood still. Eyes widened to the point of strain. A cold shiver shook through him.

The cracks spider-webbed up the blade, crackling like reconstituted rice, or the sound ice makes when placed in water that was too warm.

Metal breaking off into chips. Small pieces, inconsequential at first. Until it burst like splintering glass, only the sound was sharper, heavier.

The scant light of the ruins refracting off the kaleidoscope of shards that now surrounded him.

With the absence of the blade, unable to change his own trajectory, his face connected with the stone, and he was sent flying in the opposite direction, too late to recover, he hit the ground hard.

A gasp escaped him as he felt his back crack harshly, his momentum causing his body to skip like a flat rock across the water. Each impact broke something new until he finally came to a stop. Though not as disoriented as before, his injuries prevented him from returning to his feet too quickly. It was a struggle to even prop himself up by his elbows, the state of his back caused him a profound amount of trouble as he forced his legs underneath him. He /had/ to get standing, he couldn’t be caught like this. The ground shook with each step of the demon’s approach, causing the water to ripple and wave. Vergil managed to stand at the cusp of the demon king’s arrival, only to be riddled with vines that speared through his flesh, breaking the bones that had just knitted back together, locking him in place.

The ground beneath him shook as the chunk was lifted into the air, excess water flowed from its edges until there was but a small pull beneath Vergil. At first, Vergil did not catch what the demon king was saying, his body protesting too loudly, the list of where there was pain kept growing each passing moment. He did finally focus on what was being said when he heard his father’s name.

“...Son of Sparda. Son of a traitor.” The disdain his the tone palpable, “If he had not lost his demon pride and took humans to his bed, he could have had a son worthy of his name. Yet here you are, a perversion of our kind.”

The chuckle sent a chill down his spine, “Fortunate that the whore that bore you perished. It is a shame that my forces did not come across Sparda that day, he might have been able to save her.”

Vergil gritted his teeth, “Are you done?!” He snapped.

Silence hung between them for what seemed like an eternity, “Such insolence, you show me ire, yet the stench of fear betrays you.”

As Vergil opened his mouth to retort, a vine hand wrapped firmly around his neck, stopping him from speaking. Choking him until his lungs were burning for air, his vision blurred. Yamato fell from his grip, though reflexively he tried to grasp it again, his fingertips catching on the end of the pommel as it fell. Plunking into the water below him, out of reach. Once it became clear that the vines would not let up, once his head pounded and black splotches appeared in his vision, only then did Vergil struggle against the vines. Desperate for air.

“Ego, terror, rage. Such intensity in your odor, conflicting each other. Foul emotion of the human heart. It cannot decide what it wants to be,” As the vine released his neck, Vergil gasped desperately for air, vertigo taking him as he hung uselessly among the vines.

“I will say, what you did not inherit from your father in strength, you make up for it in audacity.” What felt like more black vines crawled up his body, slow and deliberate this time. They had a warmth to them, sticky dampness.

The sensation causes him to shiver in disgust.

“It is time that you learned your place, Son of Sparda,” The slick, black vines wormed their way around his body, tightening around his chest and limbs. Once he was secured in their grasp he was yanked upward, away from the vined chunk of floating land. As he’s lifted, Vergil gets a glimpse of the source of these warm ‘vines’, their slick black sheen glinting out from the cracks of the statuesque demon. He realized then they were not vines at all. A cold panic-struck through him, and in his struggles, he ignored the pain from his broken body. 

Vergil tried to shout as more tentacles surrounded him till he was lost in the pervasive darkness. The tips of the tentacles dug into the wounds of his flesh, boring into any unmarred skin, causing new wounds. Jerking when he felt his skull crack, dizzy as pain throbbed, blood trailing down his neck. Surviving only by the grace of his demonic blood, sure these injuries would kill any lesser creature. Still, he was not immune to instinct as panic struck him again as he struggled and writhed, disgusted and afraid. Yet he could gain no leverage.

“You still fight? Even when your body is at its limit? Commendable, if not foolish. It is clear your sordid nature would require a more... invasive approach.” Gagging as one of the tentacles shoved past his mouth and slicked its way down into his throat. The taste was vile and Vergil would have vomited if not for the invasion blocking him from doing so.

“I have heard of the delicate human spirit. Centered in the precious worship of their pathetic flesh. What is the phrase... That the body is a temple?” Desperately Vergil found only breath through his nostrils, the air thick and stale with the stench of the demon. Like burning molasses, it stung his senses.

“Do you hold such preconceptions?”

What was he talking about?

No sooner was the question voiced than the answer came when one of the tentacles tore open the back of his pants. Panic washed over him again, but he could do nothing but scream as the slick black thing ripped him open, filling him. His eyes stung as the tentacle writhed within him, causing him to squirm, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. Shame washing over him at the despicable invasion.

“So you do,” The chuckle that came from the demon caused the tentacles to vibrate and throb, earning fresh cries of muffled agony that splotched Vergil’s vision. Slow and deliberate, harsh and violently twisting in him, screaming into the tentacle down his throat, hot blood dripping down his legs. When at last, there seemed to be a lull in the tentacles activity, his vision returned. Relief was but a breath away.

Was it over?

“Do you understand now, Son of Sparda?”

No, it wasn’t.

Mundus booming voice caused slight tremors through the tentacles, “When you came to Hell, you entered my realm. All things and creatures of my realm belong,”

Vergil gave a muffled yelp as the tentacles moved once more, pulsating as they bulged as if something was moving through them.

“Body and Soul,”

Once the intruding substance entered through his mouth, into his skull, through his skin, into his ass, he felt a cold and vile wave of foreign sensation rush through him, making him sick. The feverish cold threatening to consume him, filling him with a shameful bliss that was unnatural. Eyes rolling back as he quickly became drunk on the energy of the more powerful demon as the thick muck coursed into him.

“To me,”

The invasion of the essence into his mind, ripping through his senses like a blender, was a horrific experience. Where he should be feeling pain, anguish, there was also pleasure and pressure. A cocktail of erotic humiliation, profound contempt, venereal craving, and fleshly avidity that was blinding.

Enough...

Please!

Just make it stop!

The conflict of this horror and the euphoria of the corruption coursing through him left him in the throes of obscene torment, and raw, erogenous terror.

Too much for him to handle, Vergil blacked out. Mundus’ last words seemed distant, but he heard them well enough.

“Now, so do you.”

* * *

When Vergil woke, he had the sensation of deja-vu. The world spun around him as he lay on the cold, damp stone. His hair shrouded his vision.

No, that wasn’t accurate.

While hair was in his face, as he moved his head it was clear that his vision was distorted. Everything was covered in a thin sheen of rouge. This strange change of perception caused the environment to lag, the edges bleeding, leaving ghost images behind as he surveyed the room he was in.

It was circular, light poured in from the caged ceiling high above him, dim as it was, the sound of dripping water. The only door in the place was made of some sort of dark metal, with no handle on the inside.

Familiar and yet he could not place why.

As he shifted to sit, he winced at the sharp pain that ran through him. Checking himself for wounds, he immediately found that his clothes were worn, tattered, and looked eerily... old. Dusted and ruddy, the royal blue of the silk now darkened to that of the deep sea.

Cold creeping down his spine at the sight as he gently touched the frayed ends of the cloth.

Regardless, the heavy, wet clothes made him shiver, so he discarded them for now. His vest was worn as well, torn in a few places, he unzips it to check the most prominent source of pain, his chest. What he finds stills his breath, over his left breast, where his heart should be, there was a deep, throbbing wound. Yet it did not bleed. Instead, from the center of the wound his veins had blacked and gorged, his skin as pale as ash, and dare he says it looked to be cracking. Where it cracked a bit of blue light sprang forth, ever so soft.

Shortly he realized that this strange condition wasn’t just on his torso. In fact, he could only guess that it spread to his entire body.  
Touching one of the areas with the heaviest affliction was like he was poking his skin with a hot brand, yet at the same time, it felt clammy and distant like he was not touching his own flesh.

Affixed around his neck, was a cold iron collar, with matching manacles on his wrists and ankles. His wrists showed a considerable amount of chafing, to the point where the edges where it met his skin showed signs of injury. Vergil sneered at the sight of them, realizing they did not appear to have a seam or method of locking them. Just a loop for something to hook onto. So they were somehow enchanted, then?

Whatever... Questions for later.

Moving to stand, as soon as he put weight on his left leg it immediately shocked him with pain and gave out from under him, leaving him sprawling on the floor once again. Staying put, for now, he instead rested his body against one of the curved walls.

Surveying the room revealed a few wood plates near the door, there was the smell of old blood that had been washed away, but not entirely. He leaned over to smell collect a bit of the blood from patch nearest him, sniffing at the still wet sample.

Familiar blood.

His own?

How badly had he been injured by Mundus?

He knew the answer, and it caused a disgusted shudder to slither through him.

Distinctly though, he remembered his back had been broken. He shouldn’t be able to move. Not yet anyhow.

For that matter, he didn’t remember sustaining a broken leg during the battle. But perhaps he had acquired it in the struggle of the... He shook the images from his head.

Trying to discern the inconsistencies forced a migraine to throb, “Ugh...” his voice was raw, strained and painful to use. Had he really screamed that much? Or was the invasion that harmful to his vocal cords?

Either way, he felt a hot wave of shame streak through him, trying again shaking off the details of what happened to him. They didn’t matter much now, did they? The bottom line was that he was captured, trapped.

Returning his gaze to surveying the room, on the far left wall was a pile of what he could only surmise was some sort of dried grass, a matted wad of cloth that he didn’t recognize. Possibly from the previous denizens. Near the makeshift bed there were marks on the wall, as he scooted closer he discovered they were tallies. Twelve sets of five. Plus three more.

Is that how many the previous prisoner stayed here?

Just sixty-three days? The marks looked quite fresh, perhaps they passed away or were moved.

Vergil rested next to the tally marks, his body already weary from the bit of movement he had exerted. He rested his face into his good knee, grimacing at his own weakness and unaccounted exhaustion. Wincing when his hip pinched, though it was so persistent he had to resort shifting to loosen the pinched nerve by laying to his side.

That was better.

Though he’d been forcing the thoughts away, they came back to him, full forced and clear, he remembered the humiliation of defeat and rape he had endured. He tried once more to shake it from his mind, eyes prickling with a burning sensation, biting back nausea and the metallic taste of pre-disgorge crawling at the back of his throat. Swallow it down. Ignore it. As far as he was concerned it was... a lesson. He won’t make the same mistakes, he’d be quicker, more tactful. Less recklessness. More care, more awareness. That sounds right. Focus on distance attacks with Yamato next time.

... Yamato.

It came back to him. The moment it had shattered, the feeling of shock and dread. Vergil sneered at the damp floor, grimacing against his good knee, his grip tightening on the trousers.

Fuck...

Damn it!

The corners of his eyes stung again as the sound of Yamato shattering rang through his ears again as if it just happened. He fucked up. But how? How did he fail to make up for the disproportion of strength? He was prepared, perhaps not as much as he would have planned to be...

No, not nearly as much as he had planned to be.

He /should/ have had his father’s legendary sword. Baring that he should have had the core of the sword, Force Edge, with him. Yet he left it in favor of taking the amulet. Reflexively he reached for his neck, freezing when he realized what he should have minutes earlier, that the weight of his mother’s amulet was missing from his neck. No...

No, no-no.

Vergil searched himself, then turned his gaze toward his discarded clothes. Wincing as he pulled leaned enough to grasp the tattered end of his jacket to pull it closer, rifling through every pocket to find it, yet it was missing. Frustrated and pained, he tossed his jacket aside in a gruff growl that scratched his throat, searching his vest now, he quickly tossed that aside as well when there was no amulet to be found.

“DAMN IT!” he croaked out, wincing at the state of his voice. Swallowing to try to calm the torn and worn muscles. A small glint in the corner of his eyes caught his attention, and he snapped his head toward the shine, shimmying to the bedding to yank off the pitiful cloth draping atop the grass.

There it was, nestled among the dried, milk-white grass, was the amulet, its brilliant ruby shining as it caught the dim light above. Cradling it in his hand, he pressed it against his forehead, the flurry of emotion and panic calming instantly as he sat back against the cold stone. His thumb gently grazing over the edges of the gold rim surrounding the ruby. It was safe, it was here. He didn’t lose it.

When he was calm, he sat up once more, gently moving his leg to get a better look at the wound. Checking the leg as he carefully pulled up the pant leg out from under his boots. Not that his pants served a purpose in covering him anymore, the back having been ripped open... Still, he was not so swift to part with them just yet.

There was a lot of swelling, but no bleeding or open wounds, a distinct throbbing at the shin that told him the limb was broken. Even so, there was the familiar tingling sensation that told him it was healing nicely, That was a start. With a sigh he leaned back against the cold of the stone, shivering with embarrassment and chill as his bare ass rested on the damp floor. His gaze settling on the wood plates near the door.

Scooting over to the door, he took one of the plates and tried to break it. When he could not he tried to use the corner of the door frame as leverage, finally breaking it after too many tries, he immediately felt spent from the exertion. No, he would not entertain this weakness. Leaning against the door, he used the plate as to rip up some of the cloth from the bed, then used the length of it as a splint.

Once the splint was secure he rested, vertigo took him as the room felt like it was spinning again.

He may have fallen asleep, the shift of metal next to him shocking him awake. There was a voice, he did not understand the language, but he waited for the right moment. Watching it carefully as it’s gangly limb shoved a wooden plate of something muck that could hardly pass as food through.

Now.

Vergil clasped his hand around the arm, pinning it to the floor. When the demon yelped Vergil grinned, using the sharper piece of broken plate, he stabbed through into the creature’s metacarpals to pin its arm there.

It screamed.

In that same moment something sent his body into a fit of pain, the source of pain he could not identify as it felt like it was squeezing, scratching, and crackling its way through every inch of him. He stiffened and collapsed onto the floor, trying to grasp, to inhale some air into his burning lungs, but getting nothing.

By the time he had even begun to recover the feeding door had been closed, the fresh plate and its contents left behind. His throat burned, his fingertips tingled, his body throbbed and pulsed. His heart pounding frantically, desperately in his ears, his chest felt tight as he rasped at every breath; and these were not careful breaths. These were desperate gulps of air like he was drowning.

For some time he could not move, when he did manage to, as his breathing finally steadied, he forced his shaking body to a sitting position again, pausing for a long moment for nausea to settle before turning to look at the plate.

_‘What the hell is this?’_ was the obvious question on his mind as he retrieved the plate from its spot on the floor. Giving the plate a tentative sniff, grimacing at its strange, sulfuric undertone. It did smell like meat, though, so against his better judgment he picked up the slimy, what could only be described as a meatball, and bit into it. It was a grueling task to swallow the gamy meat, even more, to continue doing so till he was finished. The sauce like gravy it was served with wasn’t so bad, it had flavors he couldn’t name, all of them not as pleasant as any human dish, but it ... sufficed.

* * *

In the hours that passed, Vergil had used the stake he’d used on the gremlin of a demon earlier to carve at some of the stone making up the walls, to no true avail. So he just drove the stake in deep and hung his coat to dry. Using the cloth over the grass as a crude blanket, he tried to rest, yet with every subtle, half-heard the sound he found himself jolting awake.

It was useful, surely, that his instincts were on such high alert. But on the other hand, it was equally annoying when he needed the rest. It took hours longer than it should have for his leg to heal.

He was nearly drifting to a true sleep when something nagged at him to wake, he hadn’t heard anything dangerous or noteworthy, just the sound of water dripping more frequently than normal. A harmless noise, yet here he was, springing to wake on the bedding, his heart in his ears. Eyes darting around the small, circular prison, only looking up when the light began to dim above him. A sharp intake of breath stilled in him as he saw the culprit of his darkening room; there were long, black tentacles snaking down toward him.

Panic washed over him as he stumbled away from the length of the dark tendrils as they met the grate on the ceiling, rushing to grab the stake in the wall, yanking it out he used it to stab the nearest tendril when it got too close. In unison the tendrils snapped away at the cut he managed, momentarily frozen there before rushing at him. He struggled and stabbed at the black tentacles, yet he was quickly overrun.

The invasive tentacles tried forcing their way past his teeth no matter how hard he clenched, breaking a few of his incisors. Giving a shout as he was forced to the floor, yelping, and growling in protest. Gasping as they bore into the wound over his heart, choking then as his mouth and throat were taken. He struggled against the tendrils as they snaked around his body, yet he could not stop as his body was contorted, spread wide as the tentacles drove deep into him. He would shout if he could, in shame, and pain as his body was again ravaged violently by the cold invasive embrace that must be Mundus, yet he’d spoken no words to him.

None of it gentle.

A violent tussle of pressure and blood. It was clear that his pleasure wasn’t the point, as he was stretched and filled, unable to protest against the harsh rhythm forced into him, draining him of strength as he struggled against every passing moment. His head swimming when the tentacles pulsated, pumping that ichor into his body until he was delirious. Until finally, he was dropped harshly onto his back, covered in sweat and the remnants of the corrupting ichor.

~~(That could likely be his cum. That thought alone was nauseating.)~~

Vertigo, the exhaustion prevented him from moving right away, and when he could he turned to his side to heave and retch until he could no more. He had no energy to brood over his lost lunch.

Noticing that it was light in his chamber again, telling him that the tendrils had retreated once more. Checking skyward just to make sure he was alone. Quietly, he stayed there, until the cold on his skin was too much to bear. Only then did he move back to the bedding, finding the amulet, he clutched it to his chest. Vergil bore his tired glare into the stone of the wall before him, his rose tinged gaze glossing as tears came unbidden, stinging sharply.

He would have spoken his ire aloud if he thought his voice would work.

He knew it wouldn’t.

As his gaze drifted to the tallies on the wall, then to the tattered coat crumpled on the ground near him, he ruminated on his scent all over the room, on the tolerance of the food, and the discarded plates near the door. On the amulet being hidden in the bedding...

... Vergil reached up to trace his hand on the wall, counting the tallies again. Sixty-three tallies. Catching sight of his chafed wrists, the wounds were reopened. He watched as a bead of blood dripped down to his elbow, and dropped into the bedding, in the same spot among the grass as another stain of blood. It was older, drier. Surely it had been there for a while. Picking up one of the dried, stained shreds of grass, he sniffed at it.

Oh.

It was his blood.

* * *

In the quiet, he stilled for countless moments before picking a small, worn chunk of stone from the corner where the wall met the floor, reaching to scratch one more line into the wall of tallies.

With the job done, he sat back,

and waited.


	2. 77

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vergil makes his first escape attempt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lateness of the update! I hope you enjoy the next train ride through this angst train. If you like it, leave a comment~

Seventy-six...

Truthfully Vergil had no idea if he was counting days, so much as he was counting cycles. Sometimes a cycle ended with Vergil simply passing out when his body could no longer stave off sleep. Sometimes it ended with water raining down onto him, the small drain in the middle of the room the only thing protecting his bedding from getting wet. The first time this happened he had a panic attack, pressed against the wall, waiting for the inevitable. Even when clear it wouldn’t come, that the black tendrils would not arrive, it took time to calm down.

More than he cared to admit.

He cursed his show of weakness, but there was no one to see, no one besides himself to protect his ego against; he was just so very tired. Raw.

The gouge in his chest pained him constantly, it had no time to heal as it was a favored wound that the tendrils would not leave be. Almost constantly he had a migraine, and his eyes stung when the rose gloss over his vision was at its strongest intensity. It was hard to focus, hard to think after these horrid sessions with the demon king.

Over the course of the thirteen cycles, he’d noticed a steady pattern of events. He’d be fed, left alone; fed, left alone; raped, left alone; sometimes it would rain, giving him the chance to shower, to rinse away the excess ichor, blood, and grime from his skin.

Heh...

Rinse.

Repeat.

Dante would have caught that one. Would he have thought it amusing? Or would he be horrified? Would Dante think him strange or deranged that he found it amusing? Why did he? Was Vergil becoming numb to it all? Or was he steadily losing his mind?

Still, he could not remember the prior sixty-three cycles, and frankly, he didn’t think he wanted to. Something happened, surely, that caused the fugue. Frankly, he was unwilling to dredge up the truth.

On the seventy-seventh cycle, marked so for Vergil waking up groggy from exhaustion’s dreamless slumber, the heavy door clanked as the deadbolt turned, and steadily swung open. Vergil had stood swiftly, fully clothed for the modest comfort his tattered clothes brought, backing away as the two large lizard-like demons, Furies if he recalled correctly from his father’s books, entered the room. There was an electric moment that the three were poised, his gaze fixated on the creatures as they were on him. When the moment past the three of them was dashing around the room at breakneck speeds. He tried to maneuver himself past the swift-foot demons to get himself to the door, but one always managed to cut off his trajectory, only recovering in time to avoid being slashed or rammed.

Surprisingly he managed to trick them to slam into each other, and as they crashed into the grated ceiling he landed, picking up the blanket that made up the top of his bedding as he rushed out the door, slamming it shut behind him. His heart pounding in his ears, his neck muscles taught against the collar, he let out a heavy sigh as he slumped into the door. Only to flinch as it was slammed into from the other side.

A grin touched the corner of his lips, but the elation and pride he should be feeling were dampened by the adrenaline pounding in his ears. His gaze meets the keys in the lock, he locks the door quickly and he takes them as he backs away from the door. In the room, it had been relatively quiet, but out here in the hall, he could hear the echoing screams of the tortured and damned, his nostrils filled with the smell of blood, viscera, and death. A chill threatens his bones, but he pushes it down.

Focus.

Don’t get caught in the moment.

Nodding to himself, he unravels the cloth to retrieve his boots, slipping them on, then the amulet, he fixes his vest and the rest of his clothes before wrapping the bed cloth around his waist in a manner that it would give him that bit of modesty. Restore a bit of his dignity while he’s at it, it was... a patch job if he was being honest with himself, but now’s not the time for deliberation. Quickly getting his bearings, having no idea where he was or what direction he needed to go, he picks the path to the right of where he stood facing his cell door.

At a generous pace, he makes his way down the hall, picking up the pace when he saw the hall begin to open up, though he stops short at the entryway stair, eyes widening at the sight of stairs, archways and thoroughfares winding into each other in all directions, like an M.C. Escher painting. It was actually quite stunning to watch as the pathways warped and changed shape in the room before him. Mathematically brilliant, but as he observed demons on a pathway high above chasing a prisoner, it’s design served a purpose. The prison was a labyrinth. Ducking back so as not to be spotted, he watched the demon wardens drag the writhing prisoner to a stair, at its base was a sigil, with the key in hand the stair shifted and changed for the warden to go where he needed.

Vergil’s gaze shifted to the ring in his hand, brow furrowing as he looked to the sigil on the floor nearby. Reservations rose at the idea of trying to traverse such a space when he should be trying to find his way out of here. Should he double back? Check the other path? No, he didn’t have time to dawdle if he wanted to get out of here. Vergil waited till the coast was clear before he approached the sigil, holding the ring out over it, gasping as his body lurched. Winded as he grasped his chest, the throbbing pain intensifying, he felt like he had spent a considerable amount of energy already. Could it be that the use of the sigil comes at a cost to stamina?

Biting his bottom lip, he cursed to himself, but the words die on his lips as the stair shifted before him, reforming as they circled skyward. Did he want to go up? Should he be going down instead?

No time to wonder. He ascends.

* * *

Careful whenever he spotted demons nearby, considerably slowing him as he traveled higher and higher. The stair branched off to meet a doorway, hesitantly he breached the hall. The section of the prison looked more like a castle and smelled devoid of bloodshed. In fact, it smelled clean if he were to compare it to the cell block. Surprisingly quiet, as if there was a spell to dampen the busy sounds of the stair chasm he’d left. The quiet was disconcerting, in away. The absence of screams like a vacuum in his senses.

Traversing the hall seemed straightforward, most branches led to a singular room whose door would not open for him despite how many keys on the ring he had tried. Sometimes he’d find a set of barred windows. Finally coming to one last door in the vast, winding hall. Once more, no key on the ring would budge the lock. In frustration he slammed his fist into the metal, his skin slicing over the horned beetle design carved into its surface. With a sneer he retreated his hand, sucking on wound only to gag on the taste of his own blood. It was all wrong. Like it had been mixed with burnt molasses.

What happened to his blood? His hand gently hovered over the wound on his chest that Mundus kept opening back up. Had this been his doing? Vergil remembered the smell of burnt molasses whenever he was... whenever there was one of those damned sessions. Jaw set tight, he grimaced, clasping his hand into a fist.

Just as he would turn away from the door, the sound of the lock clicked as the mechanism released caused him to nearly jump. Watching the door with a strained sort of intensity as his heartbeat frantically in his chest. When nothing happened he slowly approached the door, turning the knob to find the door opened easily this time, to a staircase winding upward, following the contour of the wall. Fresh air billowing through the small slits that he could barely see-through.

As he reached the top of the stair, it opened up into empty living quarters. The walls were lined with shelves, there was a grand bed, a screen behind it. All of it looked old, dare he even say ancient, the decor was so alien to him. Smoothed canopies of swooping, vine-like design in the furniture and banister. As far as he could tell, despite its organic design, the objects in the room were made of metal.

There was an armor mannequin, humanoid. Next to it a rack for weapons. Behind the bed was a folding screen separating that part of the room from the rest. As he crossed the empty space in the middle of the room, toward the bed he could see light from behind the screen. Pausing as he reached the screen, to discover a bath built into the floor, beyond it the doors to a balcony.

Swiftly going to the balcony doors, he opened them and stepped out into the air. Breath stilling in him as he stared over the expanse of plains of milk-white grass as far as the eye could see. Vergil approached the edge of the balcony, looking over the twisted banister to discover how high up he truly was.

There did not seem to be a safe way down.

He could possibly jump anyway, shift when he got low enough to the ground to stop his fall. As a test, he released his demonic power and howled as the collar shocked him. Nearly falling to his knees if he hadn’t gripped the banister so tightly.

“Your power is no longer yours to command.”

Cold seeped into his bones and pulsed in his veins at the sound of the familiar voice. Though it wasn’t as earsplitting and did not echo with its sheer volume, it could not be mistaken. Vergil’s grip on the banister could not get any tighter without drawing blood.

“I see your human heart has finally settled on fear. Good.”

With a grimace, he tried to swallow the fear ringing through him, replace it with something usable, like rage. But the rage would not come.

“Turn around.”

The commanding intonation sent a pang through Vergil, a prickling that quickly turned to pain the longer he kept his back to him. It became difficult to breathe, difficult to see. Finally, he turned towards the demon, a wave of euphoria crashed through him when he did so, leaving him struck dumb in its wake.

Mundus’ form was still so much bigger than him, dwarfing the furniture of the room, made of some sort of stone, though this time the alabaster was smooth and pristine. A perfectly shaped face, perfectly framed by perfect hair, sporting a perfect beard that splayed over the top of his perfect chest.

“Come to me.”

Vergil gripped the banister for dear life, tempted to hurl himself over the edge. If he could not make the safe landing, perhaps it would free him from the agony coiling- His feet moved on their own accord as he stepped away from the banister, every step toward Mundus sent pleasure washing through him, drowning away all thoughts and internal protests. As he came to a stop, his chin was grabbed, and he was forced to crane his neck back to look up at the demon. Instinctual was the defiant jerk of his head, an attempt to pull away from his grasp that was met with a hand tightly around his throat.

Withstanding it for as long as possible before he struggled against the grip, his vision swimming. A low chuckle came from the demon as he was released, and it was all he could do to keep upright as he gasped.

“This room was your fathers.”

His fathers? Was it a coincidence? Or was he corralled here? Vergil reached to the keys on his belt, only to find them gone. The jangle of keys caught his attention, Mundus handed the keys off to a lesser demon. Realizing now that he was surrounded by demons, he tensed, muscles taut and at the ready.

“I had rather hoped you were ready for this room. Perhaps not.”

What?

The surprise nearly costs him dearly as they close in, he struggles among the group as they grab him, kicking one Hell Caina out the balcony door and over the edge. As his arm was gripped he twisted it till he was grasping the arm of the lizard, throwing him into the rest of the group. The clanking of chains caught his attention, but he was too late to stop the chains from going around his neck. He was yanked backward, losing his footing, he fell to the ground. Throwing his feet up, he hooked the chain around his foot on purpose, yanking harshly on the caina that held his chain, forcing them to fall toward him here he used his the momentum of his other foot to kick the head clean off the revenant.

In reaction to another caina trying to loop a chain around his neck again as he returned to a crouch, he had lifted his arm enough to be caught in the chain. Yanking the demon to him, before lowering his body, forcing the demon to land on him. Completing the vault of the creature while also tossing it into a few others. Pulling the chain from his neck, now that it was his he spun it around him. Using the chain as deftly as one would use a rope dart to fend off the other demons, piling them neatly into the other side of the room.

While the Demons were entangled in the pile, he turned towards Mundus, a snarl curling his lips. In a moment of anger and defiance he launched himself at Mundus, whipping the heavy metal chain at him. Mundus caught the chain with ease, and Vergil realized his mistake all too late as he was yanked towards the demon. When his face was caught by the Demon King, the sheer momentum caused his feet to be thrown out from under him, and in an instant, he was slammed into the floor so hard he felt his skull crack.

“So adamant you are, in your resistance,” Echoed the voice above him, he struggled against the cold of metal chains wrapping around him, coiling around his body as if they were snakes. Mundus relinquished the hold of his skull, leaving him to struggle against the heavy chains. “You will learn the consequences of it. Take him away.”

* * *

Being cut didn’t hurt as much as he first thought it would, in fact, it was a cakewalk, but the torture quickly moved on from it. Like stepping stones of pain, an experiment of tolerance. Bones had been broken, mended then, just to be broken again. Flagellation had been a different matter entirely; incredibly painful, he’d only been able to bear it just enough. Until it had been paired with the hot irons. No matter how hard he tried he could not stop himself from screaming when the hot Iron had been put to his skin.

Even then, he persevered through the pain.

In one retaliation, Vergil had briefly been able to wrestle a hand free to grab the hot iron and stick it through the eye of a demon. Unfortunately, that escape attempt was short-lived, having not the strength to fight for long. He’d been pinned, while the demon he shoved the iron into returned with a vengeance. Taking a sharper hot iron rod, more of a needle really, he’d slowly, meticulously shoved the rod through Vergil’s temple.

That pain was... unbearable.

Afterward, he’d been thrown back into his cell, his wounds still fresh. Hours passed maybe even a full cycle, he did think he heard the scrape of the metal shutter on the bottom of the door. Still, he did not move. Vergil was unable to see anything but vague sources of light, and when the one source that was above him grew dark, he should know what that had meant. Maybe he did. Instinctual. But since that last torture session he could not even think, and just lay there when the tentacles had slithered themselves around his limp body. When he didn’t respond he was placed on the floor again.

He could not tell how long it was before the heavy scrape of metal told him the door was open.

He heard Mundus, barely; “Get up.” He didn’t, couldn’t even if he wanted to. Like his body forgot how to move. He could not even gasp when fresh pain surged through his chest when he did not obey. Vergil was lifted toward the light from the doorway, and he could almost make out a silhouette before him, his face was held firmly. The wound on his temple traced with a soft touch, “I see. Worry not, this I can repair,” Vergil gave a small flinch when he felt tendrils worm their way into his skull through the wound. Whatever they had done, Vergil could not fathom as he gasped, the agony from the burn was gone, replaced by the familiar agony of the invading ichor.

“There,” Mundus wasn’t quite in focus, just enough to make out the extravagance of his appearance contrast against the ruddy cell that was his quarters. “Such fragility, though you do give me quite the inspiration.” His cheek was caressed, “Sleep, rest; I will come again when you are ready.”

Everything went dark.

* * *

“You never were a morning person,” Vergil woke to the sight of a pair of boots at his face, “You know, that food’s been going cold for a while now.”

Vergil froze there, staring at those boots in shock, hearing his voice, it was so real. Was it real? Sitting up he followed the legs up to see his brother’s face staring down at him. He had no coat, he was simply in his boots and trousers, his arm was bloodied but otherwise, he was pristine. “What’s wrong, nerd?”

“N... Nothing,” Vergil glanced around to see he was still in the cell.

Dante’s gaze followed Vergil’s, “So this is where they were keeping ya, huh? I see you made it cozy.” He teased, gesturing toward the side, where his bedding was. “Well as cozy as it gets in this dump. You,” Dante paced around the room before turning toward his brother, “Look like shit, by the way.”

It earned a snort from Vergil, but nothing more. “You gonna eat that?” Vergil looked to the meal at the door, hardly a meal. It wasn’t loafed meat this time, it actually looked like some sort of fish. With a wince he moved over to grab it, Dante had come to him, nearly rushing him, “Don’t you dare,” He snapped, stopping Dante short.

Spreading his arms wide, leaning back on the balls of his heels. “Okay, asshole.”

Grabbing the plate, Vergil ate the fish greedily. It had been the first good-tasting food he’d had since this all had started, and it hadn’t even occurred to him to share until he glanced to his twin, who was staring at him. There was an awkward silence between him before he went to offer the food to him and earned a disgusted look on his brother's features. “Oh-ho-ho, noooo. You can have that.”

Vergil just huffed at his brother, whom he was sure would be complaining later of hunger. Once he had his fill, he put the plate near the door, turning his attention back to Dante, who was inspecting the tallies.

“So this is how long you been here?” Dante’s tone was solemn as he turned away from the wall, “Gotta say I’m impressed with ya Vergil. Surviving as long as you have.”

The eldest of them sneered, forcing himself to his feet, “Don’t.” He growled as he approached on unsteady feet, keeping as much dignity as he could hold together, once he was too his bedding he settled down onto it, wincing when he tried to settle onto his back.

“They really did a number on ya, huh?”

“I said, don’t...” He growled again, pointedly not looking at Dante.

“Fine, I’ll do the work on figuring out how to get us out of here.”

For a few long hours, there was even blissful silence, he’d nearly been asleep when Dante called for him, “Hey, Verge.” Opening his eyes, he set his jaw, shooting a glare at Dante, who pointed upward, toward the metal grates that made up the ceiling. Vergil followed his gaze, spotting the damage done to the metal and stonework. Rushing to his feet earned a flinch of pain that he bit down in front of his brother.

Once he was right under where his brother had pointed to get a good look at the damage, “Could work, right?” Ignoring Dante, Vergil rushed to get one of the wood stakes from the previous broken plate, he climbed up to the spot. Again when Dante went to help him he told him off. Digging the wood stake into the crumbling stonework until the stone fell right out, allowing Vergil to remove a piece of the grating that had been damaged. The hole was still going to be a tight fit for him.

Looking down to Dante, he nodded and dropped down. Knowing he was unable to make the climb himself, he looked to his brother, “Go.”

“Without you?” Dante shook his head.

“Don’t be stupid, I’ll go when I’ve healed enough. You are still in good health. So go.” It was better this way, better than Dante tried to escape. Maybe he could get away...

“Nah, not leaving you behind.” Dante crossed his arms.

Vergil sneered at him, the stupid, stubborn idiot. “Mundus will eat a weakling like you alive,” He snapped, “Go if you have any sense of self-preservation.”

“Vergil, no. I’m not-”

Pressing his hands into his face, he let out a deep growl, loud and long enough to drown out his brother’s protests, it hurt his voice, “Idiot. Blind, stubborn buffoon. This isn’t a game! This isn’t a place for your bravado!” His voice nearly breaking, it was more like a croak, “Why are you EVEN HERE!? I stopped you from falling with me! You were supposed to go back to your pathetic human life! Where... where you were...” Biting his lip, he turned away, exhaustion ebbing through him.

“Where I was what, Vergil?” Dante’s voice was soft, and if it hadn’t been for that Vergil would never have answered him.

“Where... you were safe.” Vergil’s gaze settled on the tallies, and there was a long silence between them. Rain began to fall from above, for once Vergil didn’t have a chance to enjoy it. Instead, he just stood there in it, watching the water go into the drain, his nose twitching at the smell of water. Wincing at the pain from his back as the water ran over the wounds, his nose twitched again as he scented the room, now that the build-up of his blood and grime were being washed away. Something itched at the back of his mind, something important, but he was tired.

All he wanted to do was sleep.

Dante was uncharacteristically quiet. He felt light-headed, his knees trembling, he should sit down. “Hey,” Vergil clenched his eyes shut when his brother spoke, “You should... you should rest.”

Vergil stepped out of the water, and to the damp bedding, settling on his side, he tried to use the top cloth to cover the wounds on his back. He didn’t want to look to his brother, he didn’t want his brother to look at him, or see him. Not like this. The humiliation was unbearable, his eyes stung again, the rose tint getting stronger.

“We’ll get through this, Verge.” He sounded sure of himself, as usual. “As long as we’re together, we can do anything.”

Was that so?

Did Dante think he could not do this alone? Was that why he came after him? Did he think him that weak? With a grimace, Vergil’s gaze fell on his wall of tallies, picking up the marking stone,

he added the new tally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like what I'm doing so far, Follow me on Twitter or Ko-fi!
> 
> https://ko-fi.com/chrysander  
> https://twitter.com/unpopularmyth
> 
> Next chapter is scheduled for the 9th


	3. Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes the hardest person to admit your vulnerabilities to is yourself.
> 
> CW: Non-con Oral, OC lizard demon, graphic depictions of Torture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double update?! yeah, i had such inspiration to finish this so quickly. I wanted to show it to you! 
> 
> If you like the chapter, let me know in the comments! Even if it's just an emote ;3

It was quiet, the ambient sounds had long since become background noise. It was strange? He would have expected by now to be harassed by those tentacles, but it had yet to happen. The break from routine was thankful, if only so that Dante didn’t have to see him strung up and used like a whore. The peace was nice, actually. Dante’s arrival had somehow changed something. Though what he couldn’t have fathomed.

Unless Mundus’ interests had shifted to Dante.

The thought struck a chord within him, shocking him awake from his state of blissful rest, he sat up. Scanning the room to find Dante leaning against the far wall, his tension rolled out of him when he saw his brother.

“What?” Dante asked, arms spreading in gesture. Vergil turned his gaze away, once again, he wondered why Dante followed him. How much had he seen?

“Why did you follow me?” He asked after a moment of silence, his gaze going to his brother’s bleeding hand. The same hand he’d cut. Why hadn’t it healed yet? Dante was perturbed by the question, moody as always, “Why do you think, Verge?”

Vergil’s brows furrowed into a glare. Why did Dante always have to be difficult? “Some misguided notion to bring me back, likely.”

Dante just laughed at him, “Look at where we are, bro. Of course, I would want to bring you back. I would want to save you from this shit.”

A derisive snort, “You wouldn’t have known what was down here.”

“No? Mundus was definitely down here. Demons were definitely down here. Nothing good is down here. Hell is full of evil, Vergil. I wouldn’t get why you’d want to live down here.” Dante rested his wrists on his knees, “Not that you're doing much living right now.”

Vergil growled, pushing himself to his feet he stalked over to Dante, who stood as soon as Vergil was on the move. “Come on, bro. Don’t do this, you ain’t in the condition for-” Dante dodged when Vergil swiped at him, dodging again when he was kicked at. It was infuriating that Dante kept dodging him, frustrating that he wouldn’t fight him, “STOP RUNNING!” Vergil shouted as Dante put distance between them.

“I wouldn’t fight you like this! Look at you,” Dante dodged him again. “You’re hurt, you’re tired, you’re-”

“I AM MORE THAN ABLE TO FIGHT!” Vergil growled, his voice breaking as he shouted. Something kept nagging at the back of his mind...

“You’re fucking delusional! That fever ain’t doing you any favors, either,” To avoid him Dante jumped up to the hole in the grating.

Fever? What fever? “Get down here and fight me, Dante.” Vergil had found the wooden stake, and brandished it as he glared up at his brother.

“You wanna throw down, brother? Climb up and get me.” Dante perched himself on the iron grating, taunting him. Without hesitation, he climbed up the stone, only for a wave of nausea and dizziness to hit him from the collective exertion. “Hey. Hey, don’t push yourself, Verge.”

“SHUT UP!” He shouts at Dante, he’s nearly there when his grip falters and he falls down, landing harshly on his back. Holding in the need to voice his pain, he swallowed it down as he sat up. Dante was with him already, reaching toward him; Vergil could not help but flinch visibly from the suddenness of his brother’s presence, “Don’t touch me!” He shouted, his tone more strained and panicked than he meant it to be. As if Dante touching him would tell his brother everything Vergil didn’t want Dante to know of his experiences under Mundus’ imprisonment.

Shockingly Dante did as he bid of him, and sat back as Vergil caught his breath.

“I think your back is infected, it looks pretty bad. Smells bad,” Dante’s rambling was grating on him, “And well, you’ve been sweating buckets, shaking, short of breath, so... fever.”

“Would you just shut up,” He tried to give his words a growl to them, but it came out more like a strangled huff than anything.

“Sure! Sure! I’ll go back to my little corner in this circular room, you go back to yours. We’ll pretend we don’t exist to each other again,” Dante chided him, really all it did was make him want to punch him, “Peachy keen, brotherly love. Right there.”

“Just...” Oh, he was tired of saying it, he was already tired of Dante. “Shut. Up.”

“Yes, sir.” His voice dripping with sarcasm.

Vergil waited, testing his brother in the silence before he moved back to the bedding, wiping the sweat from his brow. Dante had been right about that, he was sweating, and as he tried to touch the wounds on his back he winced as one of them started to leak fluid. “You think the jailers got any rubbing alcohol?”

... there he goes again.

“Doubtful,” It was just like Dante to try to annoy the shit out of him, but why was he hesitant on fighting him? Was it because of his injuries? “Would help if we wrapped it,” Dante pointed out, but Vergil shook his head.

“With nothing clean to wrap with, it would just be festering under the wrappings.” He told him, exhaustion pulled at him again. This time he ignored its call, feeling vulnerable with the fever and infected wounds.

* * *

Vergil didn’t realize when he was nearly asleep, leaning his head against his knee. He could feel the fever now. It was like an oven was surrounding him. An honest relief from the bitter cold constantly biting at his bones. His mind wandered in his half-sleep state, “Hey, Verge. You’re really quiet. You...” Dante’s words trailed off, causing Vergil to turn his gaze toward him. “You thinking about mom?”

“... Always.” He admitted.

“Wish she didn’t leave you behind?”

The question was a gouge at his soul; he ripped his gaze away from Dante. “Remember when Dad showed us the corridors under the house?”

Vergil didn’t answer his brother, “...”

“You remember when dad said the three of us needed to be there for it to open?” Dante’s tone was strange. Angry? Maybe, but not the kind of anger he was used to hearing from his brother. Almost vindictive. The cold began to seep into his bones again as if he was just putting the pieces together. “If you’d been with us,”

Shut up, Dante...

“If you hadn’t been avoiding me,”

Stop.

“... mom wouldn’t have died.”

Vergil stared down at the bedding, the rose tint of his eyes clouded, stinging. He stood swiftly, rushing his brother, remembering the stake he still had in his hand. This time he didn’t let Dante run. This time he pinned him down and drove the stake through his chest; he yanked it to do it again. He ignored Dante’s begging and struggles to drive the stake in again, and again, and again.

Until Dante stopped moving.

He sat back then, the chamber felt like it was spinning. Vergil ran his hands through his hair, resting his head against his knees. It was quiet in the room until sobs echoed off the walls. His sobs. The wound on his chest throbbed, his heart hurt, everything hurt.

When will it ever stop hurting?

“If I had to guess? It never does.”

Wh... what?

Vergil lifted his head from his knees to look over to Dante, who was sitting on the bedding. Did he heal that quickly? Vergil looked where he’d stabbed his brother to find nothing there, not even blood.

What the

actual

fuck?

“You okay bro? You look like shit.”

* * *

Vergil hadn’t told him his fever dream, hallucination, whatever it was. He wondered at first if he mimed any of it, but judging from Dante’s lack of goading, he hadn’t. So there was no need to ask about it, and Vergil didn’t answer any questions about why he’d walked across the room and sat and started to cry. It was humiliating that it had all been in his head, it was a miracle that Dante didn’t use it as a means to goad him.

“Verge, You should at least take the uh... blanket? You know, burn out the fever.” Dante had been trying to talk him through taking care of himself, but all of that was hard to do when he was trapped in the cell.

“It’s damp, Dante. Like everything else.” He murmured, his back was tender and hurt when he moved. So he had stayed put.

“Right. No warmth there.”

They sat in silence again, “Do you want me to see if I can find you something warm?”

It was the first good idea he’d had... It was also the most terrible idea. “If you are going to make the climb don’t come back,” Leveling a serious gaze to his brother, “You leave, you find a safe pla-”

“No way! I wouldn’t leave ya t--”

“A SAFE PLACE to hide.” Vergil had to drown out his voice again, though even that took a hit to his present stamina reserves. The tremors started again, knowing Dante wasn’t going to listen to him, he rested his head back on his knee.

Something kept nagging...

“Dante... Why won’t you just go?”

“Cause I wouldn’t, you know that.” There was something off about that statement like there had been something off the entire time. Something he couldn’t pinpoint.

Vergil slowly lifted his head to look at his brother, his gaze settling on his brother’s bloodied arm. “How’d you get that?”

“You, remember?” Dante showed off the wound, looking down at it before returning Vergil’s gaze.

“...” Vergil’s nose twitched as he sniffed the room, the scent had changed, but only because he could smell the infection of his wounds. The rest of the scents in the cell was normal.

“Well, unless you count the fish you ate earlier.” Dante shifted in his seating, propping one leg over the other. His brother’s statement earning a double-take, “What?” Did he say his musings aloud?

Dante shook his head, looking just as confused as he was, “Wow that fever must really be kicking your ass.” ... Yeah, maybe he was right. Maybe he should just sleep. “I mean, it's only getting worse. And I wouldn’t just sit here and watch you get so bad,” Mhm.

“You know that,” Right.

“You know exactly what I would do, don’t you brother?” Vergil stared at Dante, who was still just sitting at his bedding, staring back at him. “Something stupid,” Vergil murmured. Dante nodded, “Like what?”

Vergil gave a small shrug, wincing at the pain. “Like try to find something to help,” He muttered, looking up to the light at the top of the shaft.

“Tell me something Vergil,” Hearing Dante next to him he looked at his brother, who was sitting quite close now. When had he moved? “Why aren’t you trying to do anything about your wounds?”

Vergil shook his head, “It will heal,” He gave, still wondering how he hadn’t noticed his brother move. That nagging started up again.

“Not if it's infected. I mean, we are still human,” As Dante talked his brows furrowed, “but even demons are vulnerable to wound infections, right?”

Vergil didn’t get what Dante’s point was, so he just watched his brother as he continued “You know, already. What I would do, even if you didn’t really need me.”

“Right,” Vergil murmured, his head getting heavy, he rested it back on his knee. The room started to spin, he didn’t know when he closed his eyes, but when he did he was out like a light.

* * *

Vergil gasped awake when the brine hit his back, grimacing against the stinging pain in his wounds. He could hear the demons speaking somewhere behind him, it took him a moment to realize he was back in the torture room, laying face down on a table. There was an iron bar on the back of his neck, locking his head in place with the collar, the manacles of his wrists were also attached to the same bar.

The demons were speaking to one another as they busied with the work they were doing on Vergil’s back. It sounded like they were arguing. He couldn’t help but flinch and wince when they worked at draining his infected wounds. After a few rinses with the brine, they used some sort of powder that stung so bad he began trembling. They packed his wounds with something afterward, and then the demons left him like that.

Strapped down as he was he gave an experimental jerk against the fastenings, but they would not budge. His legs were free, though that did little at the moment he did shift his hips to a more comfortable position, curling his legs up under him.

How long he was strapped to that table he didn’t know, enough time to watch a prisoner to be dragged in. Vergil was forced to listen to the creature being tortured, forced to listen to its pain, for what seemed like hours before it was carted off. Leaving Vergil once again to lay there, trying to ignore to the distant screams and anguished cries of the other prisoners. Trying to ignore the anxiety growing in him the longer he was left here. After all, if this was just wound care wouldn’t he have been brought back to his cell already?

This time it didn’t take long for someone to return, he could hear the demon behind him, messing with something made of metal. He could hear it coming closer to him, and he strained his neck to see what was going on. One of his feet was grabbed, yanked straight even as he struggled against the grip. He kicked at the black lizard demon, only to earn a hot iron rod stabbed through his calf. With a yelp he jerked against the bindings, the injured leg was strapped down the other one was just held up at an angle.

There was only one thing he could think of for the demon’s intent, and sure enough...

* * *

The agony was blinding, struggling did nothing but make it worse. Vergil had vomited once already from the pain, every inch of the hot needle shoved up through the heel of his foot, breaking bone and burning sinew. It had been a slow and arduous process for the demon to get the needle through until the blunt end was nearly flush with his foot. There was no relief when the demon was done, not while the needle was still in his leg.

Just breathe... Concentrate on breathing.

It will be over soon.

He felt panic spike through him when his other ankle was grabbed and held down.

* * *

Sweat bead from his brow, his head was dizzy with agony and nausea. He tried to contain his trembling, it only made the pain worse, but he could not make his body stop. It was more than he could endure. He just wanted it to end. He wanted to be placed back into his cell.

There was another demon who entered the chamber, he could smell them but for the life of him, he could not understand what they were saying to each other. He could only make out some keywords, words that were almost as good as words of power if used in the right context. They were talking about him, he was pretty sure they were talking about Mundus as well when they said ‘king’ several times. One of them laughed, the other had a nervous tone; The nervous one left.

The demon that came around to the front of him was another lizard demon, it was different from the others he’d seen so far. Quite a magnificent specimen, whose species he could not identify. If he had to attribute it to a normal species of lizard, it looked closest to an Earless Monitor. Perhaps it was a unique mutation?

His head was grabbed by the hair and yanked, his neck twisted harshly in the restraints. The growl he gave was strained, like gravel on his already abused vocal cords. The demon just laughed at him, “Yer screams are rather lovely for a cambion.” Its tone was borderline affectionate, and a cold realization settled in Vergil’s skin.

“Rhaesk tells me yer the Emperor’s little bottom bitch,” Hissed out the creature as it dragged a claw down the side of his face. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t have a little fun, eh?”

Vergil’s heart pounded in his ears as the creature’s claw dragged across his lips. Oh fuck no. He struggled to turn his head away, confined as it was by the restraints. The demon just chuckled, its grip on his hair tightening, grinding its crotch against his face. Vergil immediately bit down on its flat scaled skin, causing it to hiss and smack him. Its claws ripped across his face so harshly he was sure he nearly lost an eye. The demon had walked off, returning for a moment with some sort of forceps.

Forcing it between his teeth, breaking an incisor to do it, he opened the forceps enough for his jaw to ache, and threaten to break under the strain. Something else was placed in his mouth then the vice on his jaw was released, the bite ring that was keeping his mouth open was big enough that he couldn’t just open his mouth wider to let it go. It was stuck good between his teeth. His mouth quickly going dry as he panted. When his head was let go, he tried to turn it enough to pull the ring out with his hands. But they just weren’t close enough.

Again that creature just gave a sickening chuckle, “It’s a tight fit, but you’ll get used to it, pretty.” The demon crooned, carding its claws through his hair, “Y’gonna behave for me now, Lil cambion?”

Absolutely fucking not.

Of course, the demon could not hear his thoughts as it shoved its cock into his mouth, causing him to gag. Vergil bit tightly down on the bite ring, wishing in that moment that he could shift, bite the ring in half, bite this bastard’s cock off. He wished it so badly he could feel the collar sparking in punishment for coalescing his power. The demon just chuckled at him again as it’s cock rammed to the back of his throat, “Such a feisty cambion. I like’m feisty. A real shame you're gonna just be one of the bosses Angelo pawns. Yer gonna be really boring when all that fire’s been snuffed out of ya.” It rambled on as he gagged and choked on its cock pumping in and out of his mouth.

As it continued to fuck his face Vergil struggled against his bindings. “Such a pretty thing, you are. You take my cock so well,” Oh gods he felt sick as it praised him. The pace quickened, several times he thought he would vomit. Hell, if it would get the demon off of him he would have welcomed it. “How’d y’like to take my cum, Lil cambion?”

No, no-no-no!

Vergil tried to shake his head, tried to pull his head back, despite having no leverage or room. Growling and jerking his head as good as he could against the restraints. None of it did any good to save him from the blast of hot juices crashing into the back of his throat, and he gave a stressed growl, biting harshly against the bite ring. The demon just crooned down at him, giving a satisfied laugh as it pulled its cock out of his mouth. Vergil immediately hung his head, trying to force himself to vomit just to get the taste out of his mouth. Only for his head to be yanked back up, he watched the demon pump its own cock. Realizing too late what it was doing, beads of cum hit his face.

The feel of the cum seeping into the wound on his face was the final straw, it seemed, and this time he actually did vomit. The demon had gotten angry enough with him that he was smacked again, harsh enough that the whole table rattled, causing his whole body to jerk. The rods through his legs shocked waves and waves of pain through him, though it wasn’t nearly as bad as when the demon grabbed the needles and ripped them out carelessly.

Spots clouding his vision, he was pretty sure he passed out, or something close to it. He could still hear the demon speaking, though as it spoke demonic now he couldn’t really make out what it was saying. The sudden sensation that he was drowning and the violent sting of the wound on his face were what brought him back to consciousness. Realizing his head was held under the surface of a barrel of brine, he struggled when his lungs began to ache. Only then was he pulled from the water, coughing and sputtering, the bite ring still stuck in his mouth had caused him to swallow some of the briny water.

It was okay. It was okay. At least his mouth and face were cleaned from... From that.

The forceps were used again to force his mouth open just enough past its limit to get the ring out, allowing him finally close his mouth. The monitor demon was gone, the nervous black lizard was back. He was on the floor of the torture room, his hand still shackled to the bar, though he was no longer attached to the table. The black scaled lizard sat him up, leaning his back against something as it fumbled with a box.

“Damn Nagendra,” It muttered, “If the emperor sees this damage he’s going to have my hide...” Its words trailed off into more demonic speech as it stitched up the claw mark on his face. The demon applied that same powdered stuff that stung to high heaven, then packed it when what looked like lichen.

Vergil was vaguely aware that he should try to escape, but he was so... so tired. He doubted that he’d be able to walk on his legs currently anyway. So he didn’t fight it when his vision started to blur out and everything started to go dark again.

* * *

It occurred to him that he was brought back to his cell at some point; it was empty when they left him there, he was sure. Part of him wondered where Dante had gone. The other part hoped he would stay away. That he finally listened to him and ran. Yet another was worried he’d been taken somewhere. To be tortured? Would he be forced to hear his brother’s cries?

He didn’t... he knew if he had to sit there and listen to his brother, he wouldn’t be able to take it anymore.

* * *

There was the crisp smell of ozone, the humid scent just before rainfall, with just a hint of lily. It was pleasant, it reminded him of home. Someone was stroking his hair, “... Dante?” He croaked out, trying to open his eyes, only one eyelid heeded him. Instead of seeing his brother he saw blond hair framing a woman’s face, his good eye stung as he stared up at the familiar face. “... M-mother?”

It... it had to be a hallucination, it had to be. Another fever dream.

Even so, he couldn’t stop the tears.

He reached up towards her as if to confirm if she was real or not. His hand was held gently, squeezed before placed back down at his side.

“Sorry kid,” She murmured, and it confused him enough that he hesitated. The way she stroked her hand through his hair though, it was nice, it was familiar. “Why are you hanging on so tightly?”

Why...?

“Aren’t you tired of fighting?” She asked him, her voice soft.

Yes.

Stars, he was so tired. “M-mother, I’m... I’m s-s-” She placed a finger to his lips to hush him.

“Let go, kid.” She urged him, brushing more of his hair back, “Just let go. Let go and the pain will stop.”

Let go? Vergil didn’t know what she meant, but he did want the pain to stop. He just wanted to sleep.

“Kid...” He heard her call for him, but he couldn’t keep his eyes open, her voice seemed so distant.

“Kid quit fighting.”

* * *

When he woke it was raining. He wasn’t in the rainy spot though, he was in his bedding. How he got there he couldn’t recall. Nor could he explain why he felt so cozy. For once he wasn’t cold and shivering, the grass was comfy, did... did he have two blankets now? When did that happen? Vergil took a moment to take stock of his condition. He was still feverish, his legs ached, he could feel the familiar tingling of healing on his face and back.

It felt like more grass had been added to his bedding, and sure enough, he had two blankets now. What really surprised him was the dry clothes. Not the best cloth, but they were dry, and them coupled with the dry bedding, it was... nice.

“Kinda stretching your definition of nice, aren’t you?” Dante’s voice made him flinch, and he looked up to see Dante sitting at the opening in the grating, in the rain. Once again there was that feeling of unease as he stared up at his brother, had he been muttering aloud again? Vergil didn’t move from his spot, he tightened the blanket around himself. If Dante was going to sit in the rain and risk getting sick, he wasn’t going to stop him.

“At least now you’ll be able to fight off the fever,” Dante remarks, Vergil turned to his other side, carefully laying his head down so he wasn’t opening the stitches on his face.

In the silence, Vergil almost fell asleep again, “You know... We can’t keep doing this forever.” A sinking feeling struck him when Dante said that, he couldn’t place why.

“Vergil.”

He tried to ignore Dante, “Vergil, look at me.”

The dread in his chest grew heavier, he sighs and turns to face Dante, only for him to be right next to him. Surprised, Vergil sits up, his gaze going to where Dante had been. How had he not noticed Dante move? He should have heard --

“A splash, yeah.” His gaze shot to Dante, and he stared at him for a good, long moment. Truly taking in his brother. Who wasn’t wet from the rain, his clothes and hair were dry. Who was still bleeding from that arm, even though he should have healed long ago, who... whose blood he could not smell from the wound?

Vergil ripped his gaze away, his heart in his ears, he suddenly felt breathless, dizzy. “Vergil.”

His voice was barely louder than the rain in the room. “... You’re,” not real. Not finishing the sentence out loud, as if saying it would make it true.

“I wasn’t the last time we did this either,” Last time? “Yeah.” Vergil glanced to this not-Dante, who was pointing towards the tallies. He looked at them, then ripped his gaze away. “Vergil quit it.”

Vergil wouldn’t look at him.

“Do you really think he would have come after you?”

Stop.

“Do you really think he would have given up his _happy_ life, for you?”

 _ **Stop!**_ Vergil covered his ears.

“Do you really think if he _was_ here any of this would be any _better_?!” It doesn’t work, he could hear him loud and clear.

“This is the second time I’ve had to pull you out of your own delusional ass.” Shut up.

“No, Vergil.” He felt his head lifted, or was it just a trick of his mind that Dante was holding his face, “Look at me. Don’t ignore me. Not this time.” Tears tried to escape, he tried to hold them back, he tried to look away but he couldn’t tear his gaze away from this... this ... this manifestation of his brother. This ghost.

“We can’t keep doing this,” The ghost insisted, “Say it.”

No... no-no. He needed... “SAY IT.”

Vergil shut his eyes and screamed, “SHUT UP!” he repeated it, turning to punch the wall with each repeat. Screaming out in his tantrum until his voice cracked; punching the wall until he broke his hand. Only then did he curl in on himself, his hands pulling at his own hair, tears stinging as they fell, his heart was breaking. For a long, long time, the two of them sat there.

No...

He sat there. Alone.

“Say it, Vergil.” Again, the ghost insisted.

“... You’re not real.”

* * *

The rain had stopped a while ago, he sat there curled up in the blanket, leaning against the wall of his tallies. Staring at the markings, he picked up his marking stone, about to add the next tally.

He hesitates, his broken hand still shaking.

Dropping the rock, he turns away from the tallies, tightening the blanket around himself as he lays his head on his knees.

There is a hole in his chest,

and it’s not the one Mundus put there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is still scheduled for the 9th


	4. Hush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cold, the dark... This is where he was made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to [Runaway by Aurora], [Six Billion by Nothing but thieves] and [Hold onto your life by Sam Tinnesz] while writing this.

Perhaps he would have been fine, eventually, even after everything that had happened. If he could have found his mother’s amulet to ground him, to restore what little hope he had left. Maybe he would have been okay for one more day or even for the next few cycles. But it was nowhere to be found. Frantically he searched the cell for it, desperately. “You know its not here,” The ghost of his brother chided him. It had not manifested since his admission, since he stopped lying to himself, but he could still hear him.

“Shut up,” Vergil growled, his eyes stinging again as he ripped apart his bedding looking for it. When he did not find it there either, he stumbled back, succumbing to the aches in his legs as he collapsed against the wall. He felt like he could not breathe, like the walls were closing in around him.

Yamato was shattered. His brother was not here. He lost the last symbol of his mother. “You lost your dignity. Well, at least you didn’t have your virginity anyway so your in the clear there.”

Clenching his eyes shut, he covered his ears, bowing his head till it was between his knees. “You tore up your only bed. Which is a shame, cause it was comfy. Now its just re-hydrated grass. Gross.”

Vergil’s lip curled, he clenched his hair, tugging harshly at his locks. The stinging in his eyes would not cease, even as tears fell down his cheeks. “Oh yeah, you’ve lost your mind. Kind of need that don’t you?”

“SHUT UP!” The shout echoing through the cell, yet to his own ears it sounded hollow. It didn’t... sound like him anymore. It was a voice of despair so profound his chest started to ache. 

He didn’t know how long he sat there in silence, he heard the metal sheet on the door open, his nose wrinkled at the smell of the food that had been left for him; he ignored it. He wasn’t hungry. So deep was the emptiness, it was as if it was physical, piercing into him. Boring through till there was nothing. Till he felt there was a pit inside him that couldn’t be filled.

How long did he sit there like that? He didn’t keep track.

What was the point?

* * *

“You gonna try to climb it or are you just gonna keep staring?” 

Vergil shot a glare over to the empty air that he thought he heard the apparition speak from, his jaw set tight. Pushing himself to his feet, he winced as he limped over to just under the hole in the grating. It would be such a long climb, would he even be able to make it in his condition? 

“I mean, if you want to stay here forever, be my guest.” Shut up.

Taking a deep breath, he dug his finger’s into the stonework, pulling himself up, hissing when he dug his toes into the knotches in the stone. Forcing himself up, his legs shook under the strain of his own weight. Vergil hissed as he pushed through it, lifting himself mostly with his arms.

"You're gonna tire yourself out really quick like that, Verge."

Vergil paused there for a moment, biting back his tongue. Arguing with a figment of his ailed imagination would be madness, and he wasn't mad. Not yet. He kept going, ignoring the complaints of his legs until the pain was too much. His foot slipped, and he fell down onto the bars below.

His legs trembled badly, and it took him some time before he could trust them enough to drop down. Even then they gave way underneath him, leaving him sprawled onto the floor.

"I would say 'I told you so'--"

"Don't you fucking dare," He growled out breathlessly.

"You need to take it easy on yourself. I know you don't want to be here any minute, but--"

"The longer I wait, the bigger the chance for them to continue my torture," He explained to the ghost as he sat up, leaning against the wall. "They won't give me the chance for a full recovery."

"Yeah, there is that, but you just proved you need more rest, brother."

Vergil shot a glare toward the empty air where the ghost could be heard, "You are not my brother. My brother is not here."

The silence thereafter stretched for so long he thought perhaps the apparition wouldn't respond. Ridiculously, he felt dissapointment sink into him. Why should he miss a thing that wasn't his brother?

Maybe he was going mad.

* * *

The climb was long and arduous. Painful even; he'd waited some time before trying again, but his legs were not fully healed. Just enough to try again. He did well this time; he'd gotten halfway up before his grip slipped, falling a few feet down before he found traction again. Clinging to the wall, trembling against the pain in his legs and fingers. A nail had snapped, blood slowly trailing down his wrist as he caught his breath. Sweat bead down his back, down his forehead, making his hair stick to his brow.

Shifting his gaze upward, he wondered if he would even make it, or ... or should he just go back down? 

No. 

With a deep breath, reaffirming his conviction, he continued the climb. Pushing through the pain and ache of his body. He was past the halfway mark, almost to the two thirds. Almost.

He was so tired.

Keep going. Almost there.

Black tentacles descended over the lip of the shaft; Vergil’s eyes widened as he froze there, watching. Oh gods. What would Mundus do to him if he was found like this? How long would he be tortured?

He faltered.

He slipped, and fell.

When he landed on the grating it knocked the wind out of him, he felt something crack, but he didn’t have time to consider what it was. He scrambled to the hole, dropping down into it, gasping as he collapsed. His head snapped skyward, to the tentacles, scrambling back when they began to breach the grating. 

Fighting against them, as they wrapped around him; biting down harshly when one tried to enter his mouth. He fought so hard against it, screaming from the pain as they tore into him, struggling against them as he was raped again. The one that bore into his chest was a rather large one this time. Once he was secured, the ichor was pumped into his body again.

Eyes rolling back as the cold seared through him like fire. He didn’t know how long the session lasted. Vaguely he knew it was far... far longer than the other sessions. Maybe that had something to do with how long it had been since the last time.

Even as he thought they were finished, that he would be released and left alone again, it started up again. Like... like a round two. Three. Four. Again, and again. Until he could not tell where his body ended and the tentacles began. His head was spinning, his body aching. Surely he would die like this. Fucked like a dime whore, with the foreign corruption pumping into him. Turning his blood vile and his head dumb.

When had he started crying? (Please...)

When would it stop?

If he could, would he have begged for it to stop?

When it finally did there was no sense of relief as he was dumped unceremoniously on the floor, just exhaustion. Everything was hazy for a while as he rode a high that could only make him feel so low. He could not shake the feeling of descending, like he sinking through an ocean that was drowning away all warmth and light, no matter how hard he swam against it. His gaze settled finally on the tallies. How much longer did he have to endure? He was just so tired of swimming against it all.

Maybe if he just slept a while. Just a little while, he told himself. But he knew the truth; he couldn’t bring himself to care if he ever woke up again.

* * *

A spike of pain rang through his chest, waking him, taking his breath away. Shifting to his knees, he tried to get up, tried to stand, but his legs would not support him. Whether this was because of the injuries or because the pain had already spread through his entire body he was unsure of which came first.

As he lay there on the ground, digging his hand around the wound over his heart, he felt like he was dying. “Da...n... Dante!” He cried out in desperation, his voice cracked and dry. “H.. help,” The pitch of it hitched at the end into a whine, begging, pleading.

No one answered him. Not even the apparition. 

He was alone.

Vergil’s eyes clenched shut, the echoes of thousands of thorns wrapping tight around his heart, piercing through every bit of his body. Writhing on the cold, damp floor, for what seemed like eternity. Unable to move, barely able to breathe in his agony. When would it end? He just wanted it to end. 

(Aren’t you tired of fighting?) Yes. So tired.

That had been a dream, hadn’t it? Of his mother.

(Let go and the pain will stop.) How?! He didn’t... he didn’t understand, but... she promised. Mother promised that it would stop.

What if this kills you? Vergil’s brows pinched; What about Dante? 

Vergil gasped, new tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. Did he really think he could have gone back to Dante, even if he’d succeeded? He had his own life ahead of him; without Vergil. Besides, he burned that bridge in the fury of his conviction. He gave Dante no reason to come after him, no reason to give a shit about him anymore. 

No, he wasn’t angry with Dante. He made sure Dante had his devil’s form before he fell. So he could protect himself. He’d made sure Dante would not follow, and Dante didn’t. So his little brother could be safe.

So if he did die, if this was his last moments, there wasn't anyone in the world that would miss him...

The pain was worsening, or maybe his tollerance was eroding; his heart raced in his ears, he curled up on himself and screamed. Long, loud. Until he was out of breath. Then again. And again. Every ounce of his breath wasted on each peal of agony. Until he could no longer make a sound. In his writhing he had managed to force himself onto his back, arching and struggling till his muscles no longer listened to him. Taking in gulps of air whenever he could, all Vergil could hear now was the beat of his own heart.

Ba-dum, Ba-dum, Ba-dum, Ba-dum... Staring up at the distant light above, watching as the darkness swallowed it whole. 

Ba-dum, Ba-dum, Ba-dum... For a moment he thought he saw Dante reaching for him. 

Ba-dum, Ba-dum... Just as he had while falling to Hell.

Ba-dum... Reaching out from the fading light.

“Da... Dante,” It took so much effort to speak now, so much air from his lungs, his voice raw and rough. It didn't even sound like him anymore. It was so dark now; he could barely feel the cold floor beneath him. Maybe he really was falling. Maybe he was still there with Dante, on the waterfall.

Maybe if he could catch his brother’s hand, it would be alright.

Maybe he could apologize.

Maybe Dante would forgive him.

It was a nice thought.

* * *

Cold.

He was made in the cold.

Dark.

He was carved from the dark.

This much he knew.

There was comfort there, in the familiar senses of his birth.

He could have remained there for eternity. In peace.

But it was not to be.

Someone had stroked his hair, spurring him to open his eyes, as heavy as the lids were. Someone was above him, her blond hair a veil around them, shielding him from the harshness of the light above. “What’s your name, kid?”

His name?

He knew of no name. So he must have no name.

He did not answer her, just continued to stare up into her blue eyes. She turned away from him, speaking to someone else. “I think he’s ready, take him.”

A big demon picked him up, the warmth of the demon bit at his cold skin uncomfortably. Wincing against the discomfort, his gaze remained transfixed on the woman until he could no long see her. He was carried through a corridor of screams; his caretaker ascended a staircase through a grand hall of twisting and winding pathways. 

Mathematically brilliant. 

The sounds of screams had deafened suddenly as they stepped off the staircase and into a hall. It was quiet now, peaceful. The quiet made him close his eyes for a moment. Surely, just a moment. A long enough moment that he woke with a start when he was laid down onto something soft. He opened his eyes at the new sensation, to see the blond woman over him once more.

“Rest while you can, kid,” She told him, the expression of her face was one he couldn't place, the meaning behind her words equally as puzzling. Watching her her until she was out of sight once more; he took in his surroundings. The room was impressive, not unlike a cathedral. What he was lay on top of was an altar, underneath him was cold stone, yet it was soft in comparison to the chamber he woke up in. There, he remained, alone in only the barest sense of the word. He could hear some demons presence in the room, though they dare not approach him. He had no energy to lift himself from the spot, so instead he stayed, letting sleep take him once more.

* * *

It was so cold.

He was dying.

He didn't want to die.

"Then don't, nerd."

With a gasp he flinched awake; he sat up, only to regret the pain that shocked through him when he did. As he surveyed his surroundngs he saw that the room was empty.

... Strange.

He could have sworn someone was there...

* * *

“Do you like it?” He was asked as his hand gently grazed over the purple velvet of the jacket. When he didn’t answer his chin was grabbed and turned upward toward Mundus, the grip was harsh and had interrupted the hag-demon’s efforts to heal the side of his head. He leveled his gaze up to his creator, shaking his head.

His jaw was stroked firmly, gently, before it slipped down to his neck, the hand closing over it with a cold finality. The grip was stronger than he could fight against, so he remained still as he was choked, making no move for self preservation, even when he began to see spots in his vision. Surely he would have passed out if he hadn’t been released right then, his jaw stroked as Mundus regarded him a strange look on his face. “Interesting,” The demon murmured.

He did not respond, nor did he move, as his maker’s hand was still at his neck. From his robes Mundus produced the most beautiful amulet he’d ever seen, it had a gold chain and setting, with a blood ruby in the center that gleamed brilliantly. Mundus gave an understanding chuckle, shifting the grip on his neck to stroke the side of his face, “You desire the bauble?”

Yes. He yeared for the amulet with his entire being, though he couldn’t explain why. Slowly, the boy nodded, as if ashamed of his admission.

“I made you to serve me in any way I choose, Nelo."

(Was that his name?)

"You will wear what I'd like you to wear and do what I will you to do,” Mundus assured him as he looped the amulet around his neck, adjusting it perfectly at the crest of the boy's sternum. Stepping back, he lifted his hand, slowly closing it as he spoke, “You will be my Dark Knight."

Black tendrils climbed up his legs as he sat there on the altar, the boy had to bite back the disgust and deep desire to escape their grasp as they engulfed him. They smelled of Mundus, and he could feel the viscus substance they emitted coating his body. Being in the presence of such a high concentration of his master’s power was dizzying. When the tendrils were completely encased around him, he shifted his gaze to Mundus to see the look of satisfaction on his face before the tendrils and their substance engulfed his vision.

In the dark, he waited. (A distant thrumbing hammered into his head, so small and soft a sound he could barely make it out.) The pain was sharp, divine in its intensity, then it was gone. The cold gilgamesh metal fitted to him perfectly, heavy as it was, the armor completed its symbioses with the core of his being. When it did, he opened his eyes, he was able to see out from the mask, even breath through it. It had bonded with the manacles, absorbing them into the living metal.

This power he was gifted in the form of the heavy, cold metal armor, crude in its design and terrible in its purpose, it was euphoric. (It was horrible.) The boy was finally set back down to his feet, his gaze fell from the cieling to Mundus, who beckoned him from the platform. He heeded, kneeling before his king, he bowed his head, only for it to be lifted. A disgusted shudder rolled over him as the Emperor’s thumb trailed over the lips of the helm.

“Beautiful,” Mundus had murmured, the intonation cause a pit to form in Nelo’s stomach.

* * *

Nelo was given a luxurious room at the top of a tower, the expanse from the balcony was breathtaking. After the wounds on his face and back were fully healed, his hair and body was washed in achingly hot water, then dressed in the finery. The hag-demon handler left him alone as he made minor adjustments to how he wore the purple coat.

Something about its color was disconcerting, he could not place why as he fidgetted with the cravat. His hand lingering on the amulet that made him feel warm in a way that was (and wasn't) like an agonizingly sweet sucor to his aching chest and lethargic mind.

Nelo looked at himself in the mirror; there was no evidence of the injury to his face, though he could not say that he looked upon himself with any sort of recognition. Then, he was made but a day ago, it made sense he was not used to his own visage. Still, the hair that hung in his face felt strange, so he took some of the grease that had been used on his body to restore its hydration from the harsh soaps. Scooping some of it into his hands, pulling his hair back evenly with both hands.

It wasn’t a perfect look, there were strands that would not heed him. It mattered not.

This... this felt right.

* * *

The purpose for which he was created puzzled him, he knew he was to follow orders, but sometimes these orders would be mundane, sometimes he was a weapon in his master's name. Perhaps his purpose was simply to please Mundus through his bidding, whatever may that be.

As he returned from a mission, stalking through the halls of Tartarus, he stopped before the chamber where Mundus was taking address. Most of the demons there were of moderate intelligence, and even that was a rather relative and generous classification.

"Well if it ain't the King's bottom bitch," Nelo turned toward the hissy voice, his gaze falling onto a rather large monitor lizard. When he did not respond, the lizard leaned close to his face, "What? No spunk?"

"..."

"Just as I thought, now that you're an Angelo, your just as boring as a block of wood," It hissed, its tail thrashing behind him, "What a waste of a good screamer. At least that pretty little mouth could still be put to some use."

Nelo did not know what he was talking about, but someone behind him urged him, "Kick his ass." He turned his head to look over his shoulder, but found no one behind him. As he returned his gaze to the demon, a blond woman had slipped between the two.

"Nagendra, are you done with your briefing?" She snapped, crossing her arms in front of her. The air felt electric, the smell of ozone before a storm. (It was comforting.)

Nagendra hissed at her, turning away to leave the two in the hall.

Nelo's gaze was transfixed on her, and being in her presence was just as cathartic as when he stared into the blood ruby pendant. Still, he had no response to her deed, as she turned toward him, "You don't want that asshole cornering you, even on a good day."

"..."

The woman canted her head to the side, "I know you can talk, what cat's got your tongue?"

"None." Nelo responded, his voice quiet.

"Right. Word of advice kid? Don't talk that quiet to the king," Shaking her head, she moved to walk past him, "He doesn't like having things repeated to him."

"I understand," He responded, watching her once again until she was out of sight. It was strange, he knew he'd seen her before, but there was a deeper sense of familiarity than just meeting in passing. Why couldn't he place it?

* * *

"Why do you keep staring, kid?" She asked in a huff, turning toward him, leaning on one leg with her hip sharply out, a hand rested there. The knight had not been hiding that he'd been watching, still there was a sense of surprise that she would bring attention to it at all.

"I don't know," Nelo admitted, resting his bloodied blade on his shoulder, stepping over a corpse as he approached her. "There is something about you that has always been familiar to me. Calming, even."

This news earned a surprise, though there was some confusion there as well. In fact he would almost go so far as to say the admission unnerved her. "Perhaps because you were the first face I saw." He mused.

She laughed, "What are you, a duckling?"

Nelo scoffed, "Hardly. Still, I rather prefer your companionship, over other partners."

"Yeah?" She still held an air of unease, almost distracted in a way, "I would've said the same, till you started talking." With that, she walked away.

* * *

Moving swiftly, he blocked the blow coming down at her. The air sang with the sound of the massive talon making contact with the greatsword. With a great show of strength he forced the claw and the demon back, causing it to stagger. The falter of the creature allowed Trish to vault over his shoulder, dealing a hearty blow with a torrent of lightning.

The demon fell at their feet, its corpse scorched.

Nelo rested the sword on his shoulder, unmoving as Trish rounded on him. "What the hell was that?" She snapped at him.

"I defended you --"

"I didn't need saving, big guy!"

"--and provided you an opening," She did not seem eased by his words, "I know you did not need my aid."

"Then why give it? Don't tell me its this twisted obsession with me that's given you some idea that I am in need of protection?" Her posture was closed, defensive, reprimanding. Nelo hated it.

So instead of answering her, he turned away.

* * *

Nelo slipped off his jacket, draping it on the screen when he heard the sound of rain from the balcony. He opened both of the doors, going still on the precipice of the balcony, transfixed on the rain showering down from the sky. After a solemn, quiet moment, he stepped out into the rain.

Closing his eyes, he allowed the rain to soak him, the coolness of it a comfort on his skin. What was it about the rain? 

"Remember when we played in the rain?" The voice was so quiet, like it really wasn't there.

He knew this voice.

Whenever he would turn toward it, its source would be gone. So this time he did not try to catch a glimpse of the voice, instead he listened ever so closely to its comforting timbre.

"You kept yelling at me for not using the umbrella, or the rancoat." He did not know of this tale. Even so, he allowed the voice to continue.

"You were so angry when I knocked you into the mud," A soft chuckle, warm in a way that pained him in a way that didn't feel real. Not in the same way that bloodshed felt.

"You told me you hated me."

Nelo opened his eyes to the sky, dread weighing heavy on his shoulders (in his heart).

"But its okay, I never believed it."

Finally he turned towards the source of the voice, (hoping) thinking he might finally see him. The bedroom behind him was empty. The darkness, the cold. For the first time since his birth he dreaded them.

He reached to clutch the amulet on his neck. As if it was a ward to protect him.

Ridiculous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like it, please let me know in the comments! Even if its just emoji's ;3
> 
> The next chapter is scheduled for the 24th.


End file.
